


I got you

by clokkerfoot



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:56:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clokkerfoot/pseuds/clokkerfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story begins with James Buchanan Barnes in 1934, and it ends with Bucky in 2015. He is, somehow, in love with Steve Rogers for his entire life, even when he can't remember his own name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I got you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna go ahead and get all the warnings out of the way now: underage boys doing sexual stuff together; underage alcohol drinking; legal alcohol drinking; minor character death; discussion of torture; mentions of of medical procedures; many mentions of homosexual conversion therapy; psychological harm & recovery from that; sexual content (it's all fairly vague, though) - All things you'd expect from a fic all about Bucky, amirite? :/
> 
> Fic begins to genuinely divert from canon immediately after the events in TWS—up until that point, everything that goes on _could_ have gone on in canon.
> 
> There's also a little bit of omniscient outsider POV, but it's brief.
> 
> EDIT: Oh, and I totally wrote this before I watched Civil War, so I didn't include any of the stuff about Bucky's little red book and all that. Sorry!

Steve always got real touchy-feely when he was drunk. No matter why or where they were getting drunk—and they only really ever got sloshed together at home—Steve would end up clinging to Bucky like he was a damn tree. He’d wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist, stinking of beer, and wouldn’t let go until the morning after.

“Prohibition’s over, Buck.” Steve would grumble, when Bucky tried to pry his drink out of his sticky fingers, “I can drink all I friggin’ want to.”

Bucky would just hum, not really agreeing but not really caring (he wasn’t about to complain, not when the alcohol was making his best friend feel happy for the first time that week) and he would sit there, wrapped up in Steve, until they both passed out.

Tonight was the same as any other drinking night. Steve was on his third bottle of cheap booze, and he was delirious. Steve’d always been the lightweight outta the two of them, with his crap immune system and skinny little body, so Bucky nearly doubled his intake for the night. They’d gone through half a crate, but he knew they wouldn’t make it to the last bottle. The crate had been a gift from the guys Bucky worked with, to celebrate his seventeenth, but Bucky had saved it all for Steve’s sixteenth.

They’d decided to skip the usual Fourth of July celebrations, and had instead decided to spend the night inside, drinking their way through Steve’s birthday.

They were lying on their tiny old couch, bunched up in one corner even though they didn’t need to be so close to each other. Bucky’d bought Steve a new Paul Whiteman record for his birthday, and it was in the corner spinning on Bucky’s player.

“Thanks for the drink.” Steve mumbled, his words muffled and more than a bit slurred. _Damn lightweight_ , Bucky thought, cracking a smile while Steve spoke, “Y’didn’t need t’keep it just for me.”

He was lying across Bucky’s chest—across his whole body, really—with one of his arms behind Bucky’s neck. His other arm was stretched up Bucky’s side, and his hand was clutching at Bucky’s crumpled shirt, fingers pawing clumsily at his ribs. It was ticklish as hell, but Bucky wasn’t complaining.

Never did complain with Steve, really. He was pretty damn perfect, even with his never-ending list of ailments.

“Who says I kept it all _just_ for you, you lippy punk?”

Bucky’s hand was resting on Steve’s back, his fingertips tucked under one of his brace straps. He pressed a couple of his fingers a little harder into Steve’s back and rubbed them back and forth, smiling when Steve mumbled out a tired little _thank you._

Steve was always aching or hurting in some way or another. Massages and rubs always helped with the aches, especially in his joints and his back, but Steve needed a drink or two in him before he’d let Bucky touch him like that. There was something about the two of them touching like that that freaked Steve out, even though they’d been friends for years.

“Mm, Buck, tha’s good…” Steve drawled. He was slack-jawed against Bucky’s chest, his head angled up towards Bucky’s, his eyes half-closed. When he was tired and drunk like this, his accent came out way more intense than it usually did, and it always spooked Bucky a little bit.

Bucky nodded and rubbed Steve’s bony back more firmly. He brought up his other hand and mirrored his movements, kneading into the knots and tight areas. Steve huffed out a content breath that tickled Bucky’s chin and sent a shiver down his spine. Bucky shifted his position, jostling Steve, until he was comfy enough to fall asleep.

And that was when he felt it.

It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't gonna be the last. They’d shared a bed before, when it was cold, so it was bound to happen. It was just something that happened in the morning sometimes (or all the time, for Bucky) and it didn't mean anything.

Steve was laced and so was Bucky, even though he felt way more clear-headed than he should've, but there was definitely something against Bucky’s hip that shouldn't've been there. Bucky wasn't a prude—he took dames out dancing and necking as often as he could—but there was just something queer about Steve’s body reacting that way when he was lying on top of Bucky.

Hell, that's exactly what it was. Queer. Bucky blushed right from head to toe when the word crossed his mind, but he didn't stop massaging Steve’s back.

Maybe that's all it was. Maybe Steve was just feeling good because _Bucky_ was making him feel good. Or, maybe, that was the reason Steve never liked Bucky touching him when they were both sober. Maybe Steve was just a fag who wanted to get into Bucky’s pants and—

Bucky shook his head. What was he thinking? He wasn't _prejudiced_ . He wasn't exactly _fond_ of the queers that minced around the street corner and heckled Bucky when he came home late from a night shift with a cigarette in his mouth, but if that's how Steve was then Bucky could deal with it. Queers were just people, he supposed. Just a bit different, that was all. Even Bucky had looked at a couple of guys, once or twice. It was just something that happened sometimes, exactly like the hard thing against his upper thigh.

Still, the blush didn't go away, because Steve was gently rubbing himself on Bucky. And Bucky was no stranger to that, either—he’d enjoyed a couple of nights up against a pillow, pretending he was with a cushy dame. He continued to push his fingers into Steve’s back, and tried to ignore Steve’s quiet mewling noises. So long as Bucky didn't enjoy it, it wasn't gay. It wasn't queer if they didn't kiss or take their clothes off. They weren't homos if it was just a friend helping a friend with a problem. It was just this one time.

Steve was probably just so drunk that he forgot he was with Bucky. The punk probably thought he was lying on top of a doll he’d brought home from dancing.

Then again, Steve hadn't ever brought a girl home. Not once. Bucky had brought home plenty, for necking or a drink or just good company, but Steve had never brought a date back to their place.

Steve made a strange grunting noise that Bucky had only heard through the thin wall dividing their bedrooms (he _had_ tried to ignore it, but Steve got real whiny when he was giving his bedsprings a run for their money) and Bucky pressed his lips together. He cast aside his doubts and pulled Steve upwards so he could wrap his arms around his chest and hold him steady. If this was going to happen, then it was going to happen _properly_. Bucky Barnes did nothing by half.

Steve mumbled something like a complaint when Bucky repositioned him, but Bucky pushed upwards with his hips and Steve fell silent. A few tense seconds passed, Steve’s heavy breaths tickling Bucky’s neck and driving him half-mad, and then Steve began to move. He rocked against Bucky slowly at first, as if he was afraid Bucky was going to bolt. It didn't take long for him to start rubbing against Bucky properly, his breathing speeding up just the same.

Christ, Steve was half-asleep. He was just doing what came natural. And Bucky let it happen. It was just for tonight. Just this one time.

He held Steve still while he rutted against him. He let Steve moan and gasp and mumble nonsensical things. He didn't complain when Steve bit down into his neck and finished with a spasm of muscle and a muffled groan.

“I got you.” Bucky said, quietly, when Steve stopped moving and all the tension melted out of his body. Bucky could feel a damp patch spreading in the groin of his pants, and he couldn't tell if it was him or Steve who had done that. “‘S’okay, Stevie. I got you.”

Despite what Bucky had told himself while Steve was pleasuring himself on his thigh, it wasn't the only time they would end up rutting together between swigs of alcohol. It wasn't always Steve who started it, but he hadn't ever said _no_ when Bucky started it, either. They were both to blame, Bucky thought.

It happened for the second time a few weeks after the first. That time, Bucky knew for sure that he’d gotten something out of it, and he couldn't look Steve in the eyes for two days. When he did, he didn't see regret in his friend’s eyes—just concern.

A couple of weeks after that, it the ten year anniversary of Bucky’s mom’s death, and Bucky drank so much he couldn't see straight. Steve held him for the entire night, not once mentioning the tears that Bucky couldn't seem to stop from falling outta his stupid eyes. And when Bucky’s wandering hands found a warm body to touch he couldn't help himself. Steve didn't seem to mind all that much.

Fall came and went, and Bucky and Steve drank more than they used to. Steve went into hospital, once, after a nasty fall that cracked a bone in his foot. It was too easy for Bucky to care for him when he came home, too easy for Steve to drink until his body didn't hurt anymore, and too easy for them to find solace in each other’s arms.

It wasn't as easy to forget what they’d done, when they woke up the morning after, sticky and sweaty. But it was just something they did, something that happened to them when they drank too much and cared too little.

Or cared too much.

(Bucky tried not to think about what that meant.)

Christmas passed them by in a flurry of multicoloured lights and paper snowflake decorations and too-sober dinner parties, and they spent New Years alone with a crate of beer and a bottle of liquor that Bucky’d lifted from his sister’s cabinet in her new place. They welcomed 1935 with grunts and moans and sticky underwear, and Bucky vowed that it would be the last time.

 

—

 

Half a decade passed, and it had not been the last time. Bucky lost track sometime in the spring of ‘37. They were nearly into triple digits—he knew that much. That thought didn't scare him nearly as much as it should've.

The war didn't stop them. In fact, it seemed to bolster Steve. Bucky’d always been alright with the things they did at night when no one was watching (even though he didn't know _why_ he was alright with it), but Steve had been sorta… ashamed. He didn't look at Bucky while they did it, just kept his head tucked into the curve of Bucky’s shoulder or buried in the material of his shirt. But the threat of the war hung over both their heads, and Steve started to enjoy himself more, as if every drunken night was going to be their last.

Their times together were brief patches of light, nestled between dark days and darker nights. They were both happy, for the first time since the Depression reared its beggar head.

It didn't last. Bucky should've known it wouldn't last.

Steve’s mom finally slipped under a month before Steve’s twenty-second birthday. It was June fifth, 1940, and it was the last time Steve spent the night in Bucky’s arms.

Steve was crying nonstop. It had begun in the mortician’s office, and it hadn't slowed down one bit. Bucky helped Steve home, with one arm around his waist and the other ready to beat on any of Steve’s usual bullies who decided today was a good day to pick on him.

“‘S’okay,” Bucky said under his breath when they passed a group of tattooed thugs who eyed them both up, inviting a bruising with their stares. Bucky looked away, not wanting to get into a scrap. Not today. “We’ll getcha home, get some whiskey in your belly. You’ll be fine.”

Steve just cried in response. Bucky was fighting back his own tears, but getting Steve home safely was more important than how he felt. Bucky’d loved Steve’s mom almost as much as Steve had—hell, Sarah Rogers had pretty much been Bucky’s mom when it came down to it—and he was waiting for the grief to hit him. He had lost one mom already. Losing a second felt like too much.

Bucky had to carry Steve up the flights of stairs to their apartment. His legs were second-rate on a good day, and today was far from a good day. Bucky picked Steve up and settled him against his chest, his left arm behind Steve’s knees and the other underneath his back. Steve cried out something between whimpers, and buried his wet, snotty face into Bucky’s shoulder. He grabbed at Bucky’s braces, at his shirt, his fingers not quite able to stay still.

One of the women from the floor below their own, a mother of four, was leaning beside her doorway when they passed her. She spat at Bucky’s feet, and he stared at her, baffled.

“Keep your damn spit for when we’re not grieving, eh?” he snarled, holding Steve tighter to his chest where he could keep him safe. “Chrissake, his mom just died. How’d your kids feel if you bit it, huh?”

The woman frowned at Bucky, showing her teeth, and she flicked the butt of her cigarette at him. Bucky was glad he was holding Steve, because if he hadn't been he would’ve leapt at the stupid woman and clawed her damn eyes out. He tried not to think about why she’d spit at Bucky, tried not to think about how Steve’s quivering mouth against his shoulder and slack arms around his neck weren’t helping matters.

Bucky was there when they carted what was left of the boys from St George’s Hotel off to the mortician's. Those boys had been queer and all the world knew about it, so all the world knew why ten of them had been stabbed and castrated in a back-alley not far from the Hotel, where they used to… spend their time. Bucky had seen what the attackers had carved into the boys’ chests—it’d been listed as self-defense in the papers, but pocket knives didn't just carve the word SODOMITE into skin of their own accord.

Steve hadn't ever been able to fend off bullies, and Bucky didn't think he could hold up his own in a regular brawl, let alone fighting toe-to-toe with someone who had a knife. He shivered at the thought of Steve’s frail little body carved up in an alley. Steve didn't notice him shivering, or if he did he didn't show any sign of it.

Bucky lowered Steve gently to the ground when they reached their front door. Steve just slumped into Bucky’s side, sobbing shamelessly. His eyes were puffy and red, his cheeks pink with the hot burn of the tears that were still falling down his face. Bucky hated to see Steve as sad as this, but he knew there was nothing he could do, not yet. Steve just had to fight through it. And he would. He _would_. He had to.

“I got you.” Bucky said, as confidently as he could, hooking one arm around Steve’s waist. He turned the key in the lock and helped Steve across the threshold, then locked the door securely behind them. Steve staggered to the couch and curled up in a tight ball in the corner, his face pressed into the seat cushions.

God, he was still crying. Bucky didn't know what to do.

So, he did what he’d always done. He fetched a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes from the cabinet above the wash basin, and brought them over to Steve. Steve took the bottle with shaking hands and sucked at the mouth of it for a while, gasping around the rim, eyes closed.

Bucky undressed Steve. He removed his shoes and socks and left them in a pile by the front door. He eased Steve out of his shirt, braces and pants, and left him sat in his long johns. It was hot in the apartment—too hot for drinking, anyway—so Bucky cracked open the window and let the cool late afternoon air wash over him. He listened to Steve chugging the bottle of alcohol and tried not to cry.

Once a few minutes had gone by. Bucky turned away from the window and sat next to Steve on the couch. Steve was still crying, but the grief wasn't in his voice anymore. Fat tears were rolling down his cheeks, but he wasn't sobbing as openly as he had been. Steve was tongueing the mouth of the bottle lazily and his bloodshot eyes followed Bucky when he sat down. Bucky took the whiskey from Steve and swallowed as much as he could.

An hour or so passed, and the sun went down. Bucky didn't light the lamp in the corner of the room, and Steve didn't indicate that he wanted it on either.

They had gone through the bottle of whiskey. Steve had uncurled about halfway through it and settled into his usual position wrapped around Bucky. This time, it felt different. Steve wasn't wearing many clothes, and Bucky had stripped down to his own smallclothes a while back, when he started to feel too warm. Bucky could feel all the hot parts of Steve that he hadn't ever meant to get so acquainted with.

“Bucky—” Steve was fumbling with Bucky’s shirt, pawing at his buttons. Bucky swallowed and let his head fall back against the arm of the couch. “Buck, I wanna touch—I wanna touch you. S’that okay?”

Bucky hummed and stared at the ceiling. He could feel everything Steve was doing; every breath, every movement, every twitch of his hands. Steve was straddling Bucky’s thigh, and was rubbing up against him while his fingers undid Bucky’s shirt buttons, his nails grazing Bucky’s chest.

He should've cared. He should've said something. But he couldn't. Steve needed him, and he needed to be distracted from what had happened. And that's all Bucky has ever been to Steve on nights like these—a distraction.

“Wanna feel you. Wanna make you feel good, Buck.” Steve's voice was thick with hopeless angst and it broke Bucky’s heart. “Jus’ for a minute, jus’ lemme do this for a minute.”

Bucky exhaled and let it happen.

Steve’s hands touched Bucky’s body where even the boldest of dames had never touched, swiping clumsily across his bare chest and stomach before dipping into his underwear. Bucky gasped when Steve first touched him, when Steve’s fingers wrapped around him.

And it was just like all the other times they’d done this, but it was so wildly unfamiliar that Bucky didn't recognise himself when he grabbed Steve’s hair, when he sang his name like they were in church. Bucky made desperate noises that would’ve made his priest red in the face, and he didn't stop until he came apart under Steve’s touch, arching away from the couch and up into Steve’s fist.

Steve cried, afterwards, when Bucky returned the favour.

“Why’re you cryin’?” Bucky asked, breathlessly. Steve had his hands over his face, and he was gasping for breath. He was alternating between sobs and mild curses, depending on what Bucky did with his hand. “C’mon, Stevie, it's okay.”

Steve’s muscles tightened suddenly and he went still, finishing into Bucky’s palm. Bucky ignored the sight of Steve tensed up beneath him, crying silently now, and staggered across the room to wash his hand. He wiped his hand on the washcloth hanging over the edge of the basin and returned to the couch. Steve hadn't moved an inch.

“Steve?” Bucky sat down beside his friend on the couch and hoisted his head up into his lap. “What’s up?”

“I don't wanna do this anymore, Buck.” Steve replied, his lower lip quivering, and Bucky couldn't figure out why his heart suddenly decided to stop beating. “I—I’s wrong. Boys ain't supposed to do this together. And I know we only did it when we was drunk or somethin’, but that doesn't make it okay. I went to confession and I asked ‘em about it and they said it was a sin, Buck. We’re gonna go to hell for this, and now my mom’s gone and she wouldn’t want us doin’ this. So I don't wanna do it anymore. It hurts real bad now.”

Bucky didn't say anything. He adjusted his and Steve’s positions until they were lying next to each other on the couch. They’d slept like this a lot when they were younger, sharing body heat when the burner wasn't working. Steve turned away from Bucky and pressed his back up against Bucky’s front. The dames called it spooning. Bucky and Steve didn't call it anything—it was just the smartest thing to do.

After a few minutes, Steve’s breathing evened out and he began to snore. Something finally shattered inside Bucky’s chest, and he sobbed into Steve’s soft blond hair until he too fell asleep.

 

—

 

A year later, America joined the war, and Bucky taught Steve how to spar in a boxing ring. They weren’t exactly evenly matched—Bucky had three championships under his belt, and Steve had more than three different things wrong with his body that meant he shouldn’t box—but Bucky didn’t go easy on him, even with that thought in his head. They sparred every day for two weeks, until Steve could throw a punch without falling flat on his face.

It didn’t matter, in the end. Bucky was drafted, and Steve wasn’t. They should’ve known it was going to happen, but Steve was so ambitious that he clung to even the smallest shred of hope.

Bucky hugged Steve before he shipped out, and he wondered if he was ever going to touch his best friend again. He cried on the boat out to Europe, but he wasn’t the only one. All the men around him had left people they cared for behind, and half of them weren’t afraid to admit it.

Bucky _was_ afraid to admit it, when someone asked who he’d left. He felt like he’d lost one of his limbs, but it was damn embarrassing, crying over a man. The men would’ve called him queer for it, and maybe they were right to. That night, the day Steve’s mom died—they’d been queer, then. But Bucky wasn't queer. He didn't like men in _that_ way, especially not Steve.

Still, he cried.

 

—

 

_Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038._

They’d done something to his legs. He couldn’t move them, no matter how hard he tried. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days, and maybe he hadn’t. That scientist, the one with glasses… he’d said he was ill. Sick from something.

_Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038._

Pneumonia. That’d been it. They’d moved him to a private room until he recovered. He appreciated it, in some way. It’d been damn tough work on the factory floor, and he was grateful for the reprieve.

He couldn’t remember what they’d been doing on the floor. He was a soldier, not a builder. Where were the rest of his unit?

_Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038._

It probably didn’t matter. They were all tough guys; they would be fine. He didn’t feel fine, though. A fire was blazing something fierce under his skin, he couldn’t stop coughing, and he kept shivering. He just figured it was the pneumonia.

Steve used to get pneumonia all the time. He’d drop in and out of hospital every time the temperature dropped and he caught the flu from someone.

_Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038._

Steve. Yeah, Steve. Steve was good. Steve wouldn’t’ve lasted a day on the floor. Dugan would’ve kicked his ass. Steve would’ve tried to kick Dugan’s ass right back, though. Steve was strong like that. Steve tried to do everything by himself. Stupid punk, always trying to look after himself, even when he didn’t need to.

_Barnes. Sergeant. 32557—_

“Bucky. Oh my God.”

_—038._

Bucky. Yeah, that was his name. Bucky Barnes. Sergeant. 3255—

He felt someone touching his ankles and he jerked away from it. They said the injections they gave him every day were going to help him recover more quickly, but it just felt like they were feeding poison right into his veins.

Whoever was touching him, they moved to his wrists next. Bucky must’ve had something weighing him down and holding him in place, because he finally felt like he could move. And there was a face, hovering above him. It was a familiar face, but not that of the doctor with the glasses or the man with pills and straps.

The hands were on his arm now, fluttering across the inside of his elbow and up towards his shoulder. It was so gentle, so tender. Bucky tried to smile, even though he couldn’t focus on the face above him.

The poison must’ve done something to his eyes, too. He couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose, let alone identify the face. Who was it?

“It's me, it's Steve.”

 _Steve_?

“Come on.”

 _Steve_.

There were strong arms around him then, hoisting him up and away from whatever he’d been lying on. It was a bed, he realised. A medical cot. He shivered at the sight, and grabbed at the shoulders of whoever had lifted him up when hot nausea flooded through him.

No, not ‘whoever’. It was _Steve_ . Steve was here. Steve had come for him, and… and he was nearly a foot taller. His entire body was bulging out of the uniform he was wearing, muscles visible even through his jacket—and was he wearing a _star_ on his chest? Oh, jeez, his _chest_ . His _arms_. What the f—

Steve distracted Bucky by touching him on the back of his neck, hooking his warm fingers right into the spot where Steve had spent drunken hours biting into, trying not to blaspheme while he rubbed himself up against Bucky. That spot had become something of a trigger for Bucky, now, and just Steve touching it with his fingers made his body do strange things. Bucky shivered again, but it wasn't from nausea this time.

It had been a long time since Steve had touched him like that. Too long.

“I thought you were dead.” Steve’s voice hadn’t changed. He’d always had a voice that was half an octave too deep for his body, and now it finally matched.

Bucky swallowed back a mouthful of sour bile and ran his eyes up and down Steve’s body. He was wearing thick gear fit for winter combat, so Bucky couldn't see much, especially in the dimly lit room, but it was fairly clear that Steve had at least doubled his weight. How long had Bucky been in Europe, exactly?

“I thought you were smaller.” he said, finally. Steve just barely cracked a smile, his hand drifting to Bucky’s waist, then his attention was diverted elsewhere.

Bucky couldn't believe it. Steve was _here_ . Steve hadn’t died in a hospital bed while Bucky was on the battlefield. Something _else_ had happened to him, if his growth spurt was anything to go on, but aside from his unusually worried expression he seemed… fine. Bucky was glad that he’d managed to thrive—and _boy_ , had he thrived—without Bucky fighting his corner. That’s all he’d been worried about, really. Steve needed someone to worry about him.

Bucky had a billion questions and about a hundred things he wanted to touch (were his arms _actually_ that big, or was Bucky just hallucinating?) but Steve turned to look at him with his big stupid blue eyes, and he was just the kid from Brooklyn again.

Steve slipped his arm around Bucky and led him away from the medical cot. “Come on.”

Bucky stumbled over his own feet when they started walking. His back was aching, and he couldn’t feel half of his toes. What the hell had happened to him? More importantly, why couldn't he _remember_ what had happened to him? Up until Steve appeared… he couldn't remember a thing. Sensory memories, sure, but nothing concrete.

He turned his attention to Steve, who was taller than him. Sure, Bucky was slumped over, leaning into Steve’s side, but there was no denying the fact that Steve had somehow grown an extra ten or so inches.

“What happened to you?” Bucky asked while Steve dragged him out of the room. Bucky’d dragged Steve out of places plenty of times, but it hadn’t ever happened the other way around. And, shit, Steve was completely supporting Bucky’s weight without struggling. That, for sure, had never happened before.

“I joined the army.” Steve answered cheerfully, as if that was a good enough explanation.

They stumbled out into a dark hallway, and Steve led the way down towards an open doorway. He released his hold Bucky when they were a few feet away from the door, and Bucky scrambled to follow him. Christ, Bucky following Steve. When had that ever happened before in their eleven years of knowing each other?

Bucky stared at Steve while they walked—or staggered, in his case—down to the door. Steve wasn’t slouching, wasn’t limping, wasn’t even dragging his feet.

Bucky frowned. “Did it hurt?” ( _are you okay?_ )

Steve shrugged. He’d never been very perceptive towards pain, not after suffering from chronic pain his whole life, so Bucky didn’t trust his answer one bit. “A little.”

“Is it permanent?” ( _are you going to stay with me?_ )

“So far.”

 

—

 

Steve only came to Bucky once in all the months they were in Europe together.

The temperature had dropped down into single digits as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, and the Commandos hadn’t come out of their tents all day. Dum Dum had tried to make a fire just outside the entrance of the tent he shared with Falsworth, Morita and Gabe—with Bucky, Steve and Dernier _howling_ with laughter from the door of their own tent at his hopeless attempts at sparking a pile of frozen twigs—but it had just ended in him setting fire to his own shoelaces.

Dum Dum was an excellent soldier, but he couldn’t light a fire for shit. Dernier snorted and muttered something about Dum Dum’s _gros doights_ (his ‘fat fingers’, apparently. Bucky had been learning French from Steve and Gabe whenever they had some spare time, and he knew enough to get by) and ducked out of the tent.

Steve had laughed himself to tears, so his call of “It’s too cold to go out!” came out of his mouth as a squeaky sob, hardly audible over the wind that was whipping through their snowy campsite. Dernier yelled something, but Bucky couldn’t hear him over the gale. Dernier scrambled through the four or so feet of fresh snow that had fallen overnight, his hands shielding his face, and fell through the open door of the other tent. He _could_ light fires, even if it involved him lacing a pile of sticks with low-level explosives, so it was no surprise that he had a fire set in front of the tent within a couple of minutes.

Without warning, the wind suddenly doubled in strength and the blizzard roared fiercely, bending the trees around the clearing and sending sharp ice shards down against their exposed faces. The fire immediately went out, and there was a chorus of loud groans from the other tent that Bucky could hardly hear. Bucky cursed and ducked inside the tent. Steve followed closely behind, and fastened the loops on the tent opening before a snow flurry collided with the canvas.

“Fuck.” Bucky said quietly, and that earned him a _look_ from Steve. They locked gazes for a minute, just looking at each other, then Steve announced that he was going to bed. “You ain't worried about the others?”

Steve shrugged, “Nah. They'll be fine. They got rations and water in their tent. The storm will’ve let up by morning.” Steve bent down and unrolled his sleeping-bag from the bottom of his pack. “I'm just tired, Buck.”

“And I thought you super soldiers didn't get tired?” Bucky pushed his shoulder into Steve’s and grinned widely, relishing in the genuine smirk that sprang up on Steve’s lips. Steve had been struggling with a lot of rough stuff lately, and he woke up most nights with nightmares rattling ‘round his head, so it was nice to see him cheerful, even if it was only for a little while.

“Just unpack your sleeping-bag and stop being such a damn jerk.” Steve mumbled, the smile still playing out on his chapped lips.

Bucky pursed his lips and set about doing exactly what Steve had told him to do. He shimmied down into his sleeping-bag still wearing his damp khakis. If he stripped and got undressed now, his balls would probably jump up into his belly and never come down again. Steve, however, had recently become a walking talking furnace, and was very happily stripping right in front of Bucky.

Bucky hadn't ever really fulfilled his newfound fascination with Steve’s body. He’d become acquainted with Steve’s old body over their years of friendship, from shared showers or changing rooms or hospitals, or just accidental naked run-ins between their bedrooms, and he knew every inch of Steve’s skinny body from head to toe. This new one was a completely different story. Bucky had seen the way Steve’s clothes stretched around his arms, how his thighs had ripped _denim_ once a couple of months back, but he'd never really _seen_ Steve’s new body.

As it turned out, the sight of Steve buck naked, illuminated by the flickering oil lamp swinging from the centre pole of the tent, was nothing short of a life-changing experience.

Steve’s thighs and arms were, as Bucky had noted, ridiculously thick. His muscles looked tensed, even now when he was mostly relaxed. His ass was… it was _different_. Even his back was tight with muscles, and Bucky tracked the hard lines up the centre with his eyes, letting his gaze fall on Steve’s shoulders.

“You got a spare pair of briefs? Mine all need washin’.” Steve placed his hands on his bare hips and stretched his upper body from side to side, moving his pelvis up and in while leaning out and back with his shoulders.

Steve turned around to face Bucky, and Bucky pressed his lips together so he wouldn't make a sound. His gaze fell to the only place it could fall to, and then he snapped his eyes right back up to look Steve in the eye.

Well. _That_ had changed, too.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, quietly, “there’s a coupl’a pairs in my pack.”

“Can ya throw me a pair?”

Bucky nodded and leaned over towards his pack. He retrieved a pair and threw them at Steve, who caught them with a grin. “See, I'm good at catchin’ now, too.” Steve announced, triumphantly. Bucky nodded and tried not to stare while Steve pulled the briefs on. They were too small for him, but it was better than having his bare _everything_ waving in Bucky’s face. Steve walked past Bucky towards his own pack, and bent down to retrieve a shirt.

Bucky couldn't stop staring. He wanted to, but he couldn't. Steve’s ass wiggling in the air was a sight to behold. But he didn't know _why_ . He didn't think Steve was attractive—of course he didn't! He liked _girls_ , with their curves and soft skin. Steve had neither of those things, and he was a man, just to top it all off.

He was grateful when Steve finally climbed into his sleeping-bag beside Bucky’s. Bucky burrowed down in his own bag, trying to will away the image of Steve’s ass _right there_. Steve had his back to Bucky, but Bucky couldn't stop staring at him. A couple of minutes of silence broken only by Bucky’s teeth chattering passed before Steve said anything.

“You cold, Buck?”

Bucky tried to laugh, but his teeth clacked together and broke the sound up. “I'm f-fine.”

Steve huffed and turned to face him. He _did_ look tired, but concern was the predominant emotion on his features. Bucky was becoming more and more familiar with that particular look on Steve’s face. He’d worn it often, recently. “Your lips are blue.”

Bucky grinned, “S-so?”

Steve rolled his eyes and unzipped his sleeping-bag. He held the edge of it up in the air and gestured at Bucky, smiling, “Come here, you idiot. If you're gonna freeze to death, I'd rather you did it where I could keep an eye on ya. Strip down to your smalls so you can warm up more quickly.”

“Y-you ain't my mother,” Bucky bit out. He pushed his sleeping-bag down to his ankles and stood up. The air was _freezing_ , but he stripped down to his briefs and socks, like Steve had instructed, then climbed straight into Steve’s sleeping bag before he collapsed from the cold.

It was a tight fit, and there wasn't enough room for them to sleep face to face. Bucky turned in a tight circle and tucked his body up against Steve’s, pushing back against the heavenly heat that was Steve’s torso. Steve’s breath hitched a little when Bucky lined their hips up, and he felt an arm wrap around his waist. Steve tangled their feet together in the foot of the sleeping-bag, and even those little points of contact warmed Bucky up. It felt strange to be held by Steve, rather than the other way around. Bucky decided he liked it.

“You’re like a damn space heater.” Bucky grumbled, wriggling around and trying to bury himself into Steve’s warmth. Steve chuckled and pressed his hot mouth against the back of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky froze. Oh, _God_.

His body had an instant reaction to Steve’s lips _there_ , even though it’d been well over two years since Steve had last had his mouth anywhere near Bucky’s neck. Bucky shifted his hips and tried to ignore exactly what was happening in his briefs. Steve’s hand was dangling over Bucky’s stomach, and every time his fingertips grazed his skin Bucky flinched.

“Why’re you so jumpy?” Steve asked, his lips shifting against Bucky’s neck. Bucky grimaced and didn't respond. Steve knew _exactly_ why he was so jumpy.

Steve pressed his hand against Bucky’s stomach and stroked a line from Bucky's navel to his ribcage, and back down again. He lay his hand flat and tucked all of his fingers beneath the waistband of Bucky’s briefs, gently moving over the skin there. Bucky bit his lower lip so he wouldn't make the sounds he desperately wanted to make.

“Steve.” Bucky said, lowly. It was a warning, even if Steve chose to ignore it.

Steve hummed into the back of his neck then sank his teeth into Bucky’s nape. Bucky yelped and jolted back against Steve, fiery sensation rocketing down his spine and straight into his pelvis. He said Steve’s name again—gasped it, really—when he felt something frighteningly familiar press right up against his ass.

And then Steve did two things at once, sending Bucky’s too-sober mind completely haywire.

He curled his fingers around Bucky, catching him in a tight grip that was undeniably something that Bucky had been craving for the past year. At the same time, Steve rolled his hips up against Bucky’s ass, and exhaled shakily around his mouthful of Bucky’s neck.

“Steve,” Bucky sighed, when Steve began to move his hand and his hips in perfect rhythm. It was far better than when Bucky did it himself, but it felt _wrong_ . Bucky’s rule had always been that they weren't queer so long as they weren't naked, so long as they didn't touch each other’s bare skin. That rule had, admittedly, been broken on the day Steve’s mom had died, but this was somehow different. Steve had started it, like he always had. Bucky had gone along with it, like he always had. But _they_ were different, their _lives_ were different…

They weren't just the lonely boys from Brooklyn anymore. They were at war with the whole world around them, and they didn't need to be at war with themselves and each other, too.

Still, Bucky didn't stop it from happening. He reached around with his arm and threaded his fingers through Steve’s hair, forcing him to bite Bucky’s neck harder. He moved his hips in time with Steve’s, rocking back and forth in tandem as much as he could. It felt wrong and perverted and like they were signing away their souls just by doing what they were doing, but Bucky had _missed_ it. He’d missed _Steve_.

“I got you,” Bucky mumbled, trying not to gasp the words, “I got you, Stevie. Oh, God, I got you.”

Bucky finished first. He pulled so hard on Steve’s hair that they both moaned. Steve continued to rock up against him for a few seconds, panting desperately against Bucky’s neck.

Steve gasped, far too loudly, and moved his hips forward so sharply that Bucky’s spine clicked. He groaned, the sound muffled against Bucky’s skin. Bucky could feel wetness in the small of his back, seeping through two pairs of briefs, and he shivered. Nausea twisted his stomach for half a moment, then Steve moved his hand a little more, rubbing Bucky’s oversensitive skin, and the nausea vanished.

“You boys alright?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped open. Steve stopped moving immediately, and pulled his hand out of Bucky’s underwear.

“Dern—” Steve’s voice cracked when he tried to speak, and he cleared his throat. “Dernier?”

“I know it is chilly outside, but we don't need to share sleeping-bags, I don't think?” Dernier’s voice was _brimming_ with amusement, and Bucky tensed up. “I am hardly gone for ten minutes and already you are sleeping together.”

Steve still had his mouth pressed right up against Bucky’s neck, and when he spoke it sent shivers down Bucky's spine. “Bucky was just—he was cold—I, er, I just wanted to—”

“Calm down, Captain,” Dernier continued, his voice steady. Bucky lifted his head up and glanced at the doorway. Dernier was stood there, his hands on his hips, staring at them and grinning madly. “I'm French, you remember? My brother is an invert. I have friends who are like you. It is not a problem.”

Bucky opened his mouth at that, “We’re not—”

“I swear it, it is not a problem,” Dernier persisted, “I have come for my pack while the weather is better, then I will be going to Dugan. He has cigars. I will not be mentioning this, so do not worry.”

Bucky felt Steve’s hand begin to rub gentle circles into his stomach, and he grimaced. Dernier thought they were fucking queers, and he was probably right. Bucky’d always suspected that Steve was a fag, and this was just proving it. Dernier shuffled around in the tent, gathering his pack and a blanket from the mess table in the corner, then he saluted both of them and ducked back out into the blizzard.

“Have you had a drink today?” Bucky asked, after a few seconds of silence.

“No.” Steve replied. He sighed against Bucky’s neck and pulled him tighter against his torso, slotting their bodies together and pushing his thigh between Bucky’s legs like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Bucky swallowed his misgivings. It had happened, and it had been a mistake brought on by the stress of the day, but that was all. It didn't mean a damn thing, even if Steve _was_ queer. Bucky _wasn't_ , and that's what mattered. They were just friends, and it was just something they did sometimes, when they cared too little.

(This time, Bucky wondered if it had happened because they cared too _much_. He didn't want to believe that that was true.)

It was too easy to fall asleep in Steve’s arms. Bucky never wanted him to let go.

 

—

 

Bucky fought them in the beginning. The men in white coats would advance on him, armed with needles, and Bucky would writhe, kick and bite his way out of their grasp.

Something had changed, in the year or so between Bucky’s first round with Hydra and his second. _He_ didn’t know what, exactly, had changed, but it was clear to everyone around him that he had fallen in love. He eventually stopped fighting for himself, and fought for whoever his heart had latched onto.

But Hydra knew how to break a man, and they had the entirety of the Soviet Union standing with them. Bucky didn’t stand a chance, no matter how hard he fought, no matter how furiously he loved.

“What is your name?” a man would ask, and Bucky would spit into their face before firmly declaring that his name was _Bucky_ . And for a while, he _was_ Bucky. It didn’t take long for him to become _James_ , then _Barnes_ , then _the asset_ , and finally _the Winter Soldier_. His name was the first thing to leave him, but it was not the last.

“Who do you serve?” another man would ask, and Bucky would recite his service number until he couldn’t speak anymore. This, too, was forced out of his head by bouts of torture and relentless psychological conditioning. Too soon, _the Soviets_ fell from his lips. Soon, it would become _the KGB_ . Eventually, it would become _Hydra_ , but not yet.

“Where are you?” another man would ask, and Bucky would hiss _Behind enemy lines._ Of course, he didn’t know the truth behind his statement, as he was taught only the way of the Soviets and never heard a whisper of the force that had ripped him from his old life, but eventually his words became more complacent. _In hospital for treatment_ , he would say. _In therapy_ , he would say. _Home_ , he would say.

“Who do you love?” another man would ask, and Bucky would squirm in his restraints. This question appealed to the humanity that fought for Bucky’s life and dignity when he could no longer remember who he was.

In the beginning, it was _no one_ . Time passed, and Bucky would spit names of girls he had dated, listing ten or twenty names at a time; _Connie and Sammie and Clare and Margaret and Pauline_ , he would say, even though he couldn’t remember who they were. Three months after Bucky was captured, his answer to this fourth and final question changed.

 _Steve_ , he said. And then that was all he could say.

 _Steve_ was his name. He served _Steve_ . He was with _Steve_ . He loved _Steve_.

And all the men in that room, on that fateful day when Bucky first confessed a truth that he himself didn’t truly know, knew exactly which _Steve_ Bucky was referring to. Captain America had fallen just as Hydra’s leader had, and their names were known even to the Soviet men who were not loyal to the snakes in their midst.

One of the men, one of the older Hydra agents who had lived through a World War in active service and was not shy of the second that currently raged around them, had met Captain Rogers on the battlefield. He held a grudge for the star-spangled idol, more so than the others in his unit, and delighted in the opportunity to reveal what had happened to Steve on March 4th of that year.

Bucky had been living in his delusion for three days when the Soviet shattered his remaining hope. “Your boyfriend’s dead.” the Soviet whispered while he fastened a thick strap around Bucky’s chest. “His plane went down in the Arctic a month ago. There’s no Steve for you to go home to anymore.”

And with those few words, the Soviet ripped away the last ounce of strength that Bucky Barnes had left.

“Fucking queers,” the Soviet spat, once Bucky was secured in the chair. He smiled when he forced the rubber wedge into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky merely slumped in his restraints, not fighting when electrodes were strapped to his shaved head and a technician came towards him with a scalpel and a wired drill.

This was Bucky’s first wipe. It was brutal, inaccurate, but it did exactly what the Soviets had wanted it to do. When he woke up, hours later, he couldn’t remember his name. And when the Soviet asked who he loved, the asset declared that he loved no one.

 

—

 

Conversion therapy was just as primitive as the first psychological wipe that Bucky suffered at the hands of the Soviets. It was a new treatment for homosexual urges, something that the Soviets had adopted as the true solution to inverts.

The asset no longer reacted to the torture he was dealt, no longer flinched away from needles and scalpels. They had become second nature to him now. Still, he was not yet totally pliable under his handler’s control. His body did not perform acts that defied his basic morals, and he still exhibited the natural defiance that a boy who had spent his whole life fighting would exhibit.

They suspected that Steve Rogers was the cause of his insubordination. Their asset could no more be queer than he could be resistant to punishment.

Brutal conversion therapy served to combat both the asset’s perversions and his resilience to the Soviets’ usual torture methods. The asset spent more hours with his throat and lungs filled with water than without. He suffered four separate lobotomies before his body ceased to react to images of men with blond hair and blue eyes. Electrical currents were passed through his brain and through his muscles until his entire body convulsed. He was beaten, mercilessly, by men with leather straps and thick gloves, while they yelled the name _Steve_ at him, over and over.

By the time the asset was ready for his first mission, he could not remember the young Brooklynite he had unwittingly spent half of his life in love with.

 

—

 

The year was 1992, and the asset was being brought out of cryo-sleep for the hundredth time. He was handed a file with the details of his next mission, and he read through the pages while the technicians busied themselves preparing him for the field.

One of the technicians mumbled _Happy centennial_ while he fastened a subtle knife holster to the asset’s thigh. The asset ignored him, and continued to examine the mission pack.

 **TARGET** : Lieutenant Remus Moreau

 **DoB** : 10/10/1958

 **MISSION LOCATION** : Strasbourg, France

 **AIM** : Termination

 **TIME FRAME** : 11/20/1992 1200 — 11/20/1992 2359

The information given on the target was meticulous to a point. Moreau had been discharged from the French military following a homosexual scandal with a senior officer in 1991. Details were included on his personal life, his interests, the company he preferred. He had recently threatened to release information with regards to Hydra’s covert involvement in the Gulf War. The exact information that Moreau was threatening to release was not included in the pack.

The asset was to seduce Moreau, take him to bed, then lace his drink with an undetectable poison. He was to report Moreau’s sudden death to the police, as if his demise had been an accident during a torrid love affair rather than a professional assassination. Moreau was known for his sexual freedom, and it would not be difficult to convince the police that the asset had merely been present for Moreau’s sudden heart attack during sexual intercourse.

It was nothing like the asset’s previous missions, but he was trained for any and all situations that might arise in the field.

“Just… get in, do what you have to do, and get out. It shouldn’t be hard to get Moreau into bed with you. He likes boys with rough edges, so you should excite him just fine. And there's a list of information on sex in the back of the file. Familiarise yourself on your way to the drop-off point, fuck him and get it over and done with, then report back at midnight.”

Pierce was the asset’s new handler. He was still learning how to give commands and mission briefings. The asset would have schooled Pierce on his form if Pierce did not have a shock baton in his hand.

“Yes, sir.” the asset responded. He stood, and allowed the technicians to flutter around him, dressing him in modern clothing suited to a covert mission. The same technician who had wished the asset a happy centennial slipped a knife into the holster on his thigh, then pulled tight-fitting black pants up over the weapon, concealing it.

The asset did not care for his attire in the field, but the leather jacket and skin-tight cotton t-shirt were considerably more comfortable than his usual fatigues. It would be easy to seduce Moreau while dressed in such a deliberately provocative manner. Technicians pulled a false silicone skin sleeve over the asset’s metal arm. Under the edge closest to his shoulder, they slipped a small device that would transmit the asset’s location and activity back to HQ while he was in the field.

Pierce looked the asset up and down, nodded, and gestured for two guards to take the asset away. They left HQ under the cover of darkness and moved out by private jet. Before long, they were flying over Europe and touching down in Strasbourg. It was 1202, and the asset’s mission had begun.

He found Moreau in a gay bar in the middle of Strasbourg at 1715. He had his back to the bar, and he was drinking a small glass of golden liquid. The asset had been briefed on methods of seduction that would be particularly effective when working this mission, and it was all too easy to slip into the character of Kieren Ainsley. He removed his leather jacket and hung it on a hook beside the door, then walked over to the bar.

“ _Two glasses of whiskey, neat_.” the asset said as he sat on a stool beside Moreau, gesturing at the bartender with two fingers. He spoke in French, effortlessly. The asset was fluent in several languages, and French was one he had been taught many years ago. The bartender nodded, his eyes tracing briefly over the asset’s chest, and set about pouring the drinks.

Moreau turned to face the asset almost immediately. “ _Two glasses?_ ”

The asset forced a pleasantly surprised expression onto his features, then looked at Moreau. “ _Yeah. Surprised?_ ”

“ _A little_ .” Moreau admitted, running his hand through his slicked-back blond hair. The asset pursed his lips and held Moreau’s gaze, staring as intensely as he could into Moreau’s strikingly bright blue eyes. Moreau, for some reason, made the asset feel nauseous, but that mattered little. It was not essential to the mission. “ _Any chance you'd like to share a glass?_ ”

The asset raised an eyebrow, smiling at Moreau. He turned his body to face Moreau’s and crossed his legs, letting the toe of his shoe rest against Moreau’s calf. It felt unusually natural to flirt with the man, to catch his eye and hold his concentration. “ _You already have a drink_.”

“ _And I can be persuaded towards another_ .” Moreau answered, quickly. He leaned in closer to the asset, and the evidence of his physical arousal was clear already in his pupils and the bulge in his trousers. “ _Any man who drinks whiskey neat is automatically a friend of mine_.”

“Just _a friend?_ ” the asset asked, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

Moreau grinned wickedly, his eyes drifting down to the asset’s lips and following the natural line of sight down to his chest, his stomach, and finally to his groin. “ _Well, let's see what happens, shall we?_ ”

(The mission was executed perfectly, but the asset was wiped when he returned to HQ the following morning. He had shaken violently while he bedded Moreau, and he could not remove the image of a blond soldier lying beneath him covered in sweat and semen from the forefront of his mind. Pierce explained that his balance had been upset by the mission, that he needed the memories to be erased, that he needed to forget.)

(The asset had never wanted to remember something so fervently before.)

 

—

 

Nearly two decades had passed since the Strasbourg mission, and the asset had not become unbalanced as the result of a mission since. He was brought out of cryo-sleep for the one hundred and forty second time, and given a new mission.

Nicholas Fury was a liability to Hydra’s final mission. The asset was told very little about his target, told very little about who he was or why, exactly, he was a liability. The mission was all that mattered; the reasons behind it were irrelevant to him. The asset thought nothing of the target’s companion who followed the asset across a dark rooftop. The asset did not think much of the companion’s presence until Pierce handed him a new mission pack with a glossy photograph of the companion’s face stapled to the front sheet.

“A new mission.” Pierce announced, sliding the pack across the table. The body of his maid lay only a few feet away, wet with blood, but the asset did not care. “This one is a bit, ah, sensitive. He needs taking out as quickly and as efficiently as possible.”

“Missions are always conducted with speed and efficiency.” the asset confirmed. He did not realise his impertinence until Pierce brought the grip of his firearm down hard on the crown of the asset’s head. The asset apologised and read through the file whilst Pierce readied himself for sleep. The information given lacked the usual details provided for a mission that required extreme care. Most of the information had been redacted, and the mission statement was brief.

 **TARGET** : Captain █████ █████ Rogers

 **DoB** : ██/██/1918

 **MISSION LOCATION** : Washington, United States

 **AIM** : Termination

 **TIME FRAME** : 04/03/2014 0800 - 04/03/2014 1200

Born in 1918, the target’s true age was not reflected on his young features. The asset examined the provided photograph closely, familiarising himself with the blond soldier. It was an old photograph, taken on black and white film. Rogers was smiling shyly at the photographer, his hand wrapped around the back of his neck and his mouth half-open in a laugh. The asset could have surmised twenty different personality traits from the photograph alone, but something about the joyous shine in Rogers’ eyes was distracting him.

_C’mon, Buck, take the picture._

The asset narrowed his eyes. He was used to faint visual memories leaking through during long periods of active duty, but not auditory memories. He stared down at the photograph, focusing on the distinctive features of Rogers’ face, observing how his lower lip was thicker than the average man’s.

_I’ll take the damn picture when you start smiling._

_Why dontcha_ make _me smile, eh? Do somethin’ funny, wiggle a sock puppet next ta the lens or somethin’!_

 _Why dontcha put a sock in your fuckin’_ mouth _, Rogers?_

“What are you doing?” Pierce’s sharp voice rang across the kitchen, and the asset looked up at his handler, distracted from his memories. The faint sounds of the unknown voices drifted away from his mind before he could think twice about them.

The asset realised that he was stroking his flesh forefinger gently up and down the centre of the photograph of Rogers. He dropped his hand to the table and waited for punishment.

It never came. Pierce merely sat on the chair he had previously occupied, and flicked through the mission pack he had given the asset. Pierce sighed and returned the pack. “I'm not going to lie to you. This is going to be a difficult mission.” _No mission is ever difficult_ , the asset thought, not voicing his comment. The memory of Pierce’s firearm colliding with his skull served as a reminder to not talk back to his handler unless it was requested of him. “If you're quick, you can take out Rogers before he even has time to throw his shield. We’ll send a STRIKE team out with you, just in case things get ugly.”

The asset nodded. It would be like all the other missions. Quick and efficient. He looked down at the faded image of Rogers again, silently planning his course of action when the mission began the following morning. Rogers had shown unprecedented strength on the rooftop. Hand-to-hand combat would not be wise.

_One-two, one-two. Left then right._

_It’s harder than you make it look._

_Army’s gonna be a lot worse, Stevie. Don’t want you getting beaten to a pulp out there._

_I wish you wouldn’t worry about me so much._

_I won’t ever stop worryin’ about you._

“Don't get too close.” Pierce said, finally, and the asset was wrenched back into reality. Pierce left the room, and the asset sat alone in the dark until the STRIKE team arrived to collect him four hours later.

 

—

 

When he stepped onto the bridge in Washington, he was the Winter Soldier. He was the product of nearly seventy years of torture and absolute Hydra control, and he knew no life beyond the compelling command of his handlers.

In the vault, he drifted from asset to maverick as his world splintered around him. While the wipe removed what conscious memories he had of the man who said a name he had not heard since 1945, the physical agony of seeing Steve Rogers’ face could not be erased. Not this time.

When he fell from the helicarrier, he was no longer the asset. He wasn’t Bucky Barnes, wasn’t the man who had spent half his childhood fighting in alleyways for the boy he loved, but he was someone.

He was someone, and that was enough for now.

 

—

 

Barnes was the name they had given him in the beginning. He remembered very little of the days before he was the asset, but he remembered that. He hadn't ever wished to be called Barnes again, nor had he ever expected to refer to himself by that name again. But, now, he wasn't the asset anymore. He wasn't the Winter Soldier, either. He wasn't _Bucky_. He didn't know who he was, exactly, but the name Barnes seemed to fit him just fine.

He had stripped himself of his combat fatigues and abandoned most of his weapons in a scrapyard after thoroughly crushing them beyond recognition or identification. He sought refuge in the one place he knew he would be undisturbed.

Rogers’ home had been cleaned and tidied since Barnes had last been there, but it didn't take him long to find some of Rogers’ clothes that would fit him. He found a grey sweatshirt, a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and wrestled with the material for a few minutes until all the sleeves and legs were in the right places. In Rogers’ bathroom, he took a pair of scissors to his hair and cut it shorter and shorter, until he could not recognise his own reflection. Barnes no longer looked like the asset. In a crowd, he would go unnoticed.

He camped out for a day and a night in Rogers’ apartment, waiting for any sign that he had been followed or had triggered a silent alarm. Long missions were not unusual, but he had never been awake for so long without commands. The hours passed in monotony, and he stared at the wall opposite Rogers’ couch, waiting for an attack that never came.

Before leaving Rogers’ apartment, he retrieved a pair of thin gloves from a box in the hallway, and pulled them on. His metal arm would draw too much attention to him, and he knew that blending in would be most beneficial to his continued survival.

Rogers was not difficult to track down. Barnes had spent most of his time as the asset tracking down elusive criminals, so it was simple to find a man who was currently unconscious in a hospital bed. He was hospitalised just a few blocks away from where they had fought a few days ago. Rogers’ room was on the third floor of the hospital, according to the data stream from the hospital’s systems. He was listed under SR, rather than Steve Rogers, which Barnes knew was a deliberate act. There would likely be multiple people trying to find Rogers, and the name would provide a suitable cover.

Barnes scaled the side of the hospital building with little difficulty. Rogers’ window was closed, but not locked. Barnes eased it open and climbed through, landing quietly on the balls of his feet at the foot of an occupied hospital bed. Rogers was lying motionless in the bed, hooked up to several machines that were tracking his vitals. Barnes scanned the data automatically. He was recovering well, it seemed.

 _You're lucky you didn't_ die _, Steve. Why didn’tcha tell me you were getting bad?_

_I didn't want ta worry you. You got enough goin’ on with work and school and you don't need to be worryin’ about—_

_Don't you dare finish that sentence or so help me God I will hit you in the side of your dumb face, no matter how sick you are._

_But—_

_I_ want _to worry about you. You're fucking important to me, you idiot._

There was a man sat in a chair on the opposite side of Rogers’ bed. Barnes recognised him as the companion of Rogers’ from the top of the helicarrier, the one who wore mechanical wings. He was asleep now, thankfully. He hadn’t been awakened by Barnes’ entrance, and was slumped against the back of his chair with his hands folded neatly over his lap.

Barnes turned his attention to Rogers. He had puffy bruises covering half of his face. They were bruises that Barnes had put there. He had never felt _guilt_ before, and was not familiar with the sensation, but the nausea that rippled through his abdomen couldn't’ve been anything else. He began to move automatically, not controlling his body’s movements.

First, he removed his gloves and left them on a table against the wall. Then, slowly, he climbed onto the bed. Rogers mumbled something in his sleep, his lips shifting and smacking together dryly when Barnes carefully lifted his head away from the pillow behind his head. Barnes settled behind Rogers, carefully untangling all of the wires and tubes that were attached to Rogers, then Barnes sat and crossed his legs beneath him. As gently as he could, he lowered Rogers’ bruised and bloodied head into his lap, until Rogers stopped making noise and became comfortable again. Barnes laid his hands atop Rogers’ head, both metal and flesh, and began to run his fingers through his hair.

It felt right, to have Rogers’ head cradled so carefully between his hands and his lap. It was an unusual feeling, having someone's life in his hands without the desire to end the life—he wanted to protect Rogers, although he did not fully understand why. Barnes straightened his spine and trained his eyes on the doorway, in case someone entered the room.

“The _hell_ are you doing?” Barnes did not flinch. Rogers’ companion was awake, and he had stiffened in his chair to the right of the bed, as alert as Barnes himself was. Barnes continued to move his fingers through Rogers’ hair, eyes still fixed on the closed door. “You better get your hands off’a him right now or I’ll—”

“Steve used to like sleeping like this.”

Barnes had not meant to speak. He was preoccupied, focused on his task of stroking Rogers’ hair and smoothing it away from his face. The words were unfamiliar to him, untruthful. Barnes knew nothing of Rogers’ life beyond what he had seen in Rogers’ apartment and in Barnes’ own ghost memories.

Still, the words seemed to trigger something in Rogers’ companion. He relaxed, if only a little. “You used to know him, didn’t you?” the companion asked, quietly. “Steve said you guys were chummy back in the day.”

“No.” Barnes answered, without thinking. He glanced down at Rogers, at the way his sleep was not disturbed by Barnes touching him. Rogers trusted him unconsciously when he was in his weakest, most vulnerable state, and that was not something that came natural to a soldier. They must’ve known one another more intimately than Barnes suspected. “Yes. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Barnes looked at the companion. “No.”

The companion shrugged and leaned back in his chair. His body was angled towards the bed, his gaze fixed on Barnes’ hands, and while he appeared relaxed Barnes could see the way his dominant hand was gripping his knee. His feet were planted flat on the floor, so he could stand at a second’s notice. Rogers had chosen his friends wisely.

“If you do anything, you know I’ll have to intervene.” the companion stated. Barnes nodded. “Well, since we’re on the same page ‘bout Steve… I’m Sam.”

“Barnes.”

“Just Barnes?”

“Just Barnes.”

 

—

 

Rogers slept for most of the day. Barnes continued to run his fingers through Rogers’ hair while he slept, not easing up for a moment. Briefly, Barnes drifted in and out of a doze, driven to it by his three or so days of constant activity and how comfortable he felt with Rogers so close to him. He couldn’t fall completely asleep, not with Sam watching him so carefully. He could not remember what it felt like to sleep, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to experience being so defenseless.

Midday passed, and Sam rose from his chair and began to play an assortment of music from a small box on the table where Barnes had left his gloves. Barnes recognised one song, and identified aloud that the singer was Benny Goodman. Sam had smiled at Barnes, quite genuinely, and nodded.

The red-haired woman from the bridge brought Sam some food in a paper bag early in the afternoon. She stared at Barnes for a few moments, her eyes narrowed and her gaze hard.

“He good?” she asked Sam, quietly, when she handed over the paper bag. Her eyes flicked down to Barnes’ hands.

Sam nodded. “I think he just wants to be with Steve. I ain't got too big of a problem with it, so long as he doesn’t try anything.”

The woman nodded, too, and headed back towards the door. She glanced back at Barnes—there was a silent threat in her eyes, a glint that had manifested itself on the bridge—and spoke in Russian, “ _Keep him safe_.”

Barnes stared blankly at her. Of course he was going to keep him safe. If he had wanted to kill Rogers, he would already be dead. Barnes replied in her language, “ _I will_.”

She nodded, satisfied, and left.

The sun had just begun to set when Rogers woke up. His breathing quickened and he opened his eyes, although the bruising across his right cheekbone stopped one from opening fully. Barnes watched him closely, and when Rogers looked upwards at him he saw several emotions shoot across his discoloured face within the space of a second.

“ _Bucky_ .” he murmured on an unsteady exhale, gazing upwards at Barnes. His hand twitched where it lay on his stomach, and he moved to touch Barnes’ face. Barnes made a quiet _shush_ ing noise and moved his flesh hand gently down Rogers’ less-bruised cheek. Rogers blinked and let his hand fall back onto his stomach, sighing quietly.

Rogers calmed, his eyes growing heavy. He gave a weak smile. Barnes began to smile, without intending to, and was surprised when he could not stop.

“Hey.” Sam said. He leaned forward and touched Rogers on the arm, gently resting his fingers on the inside of his elbow. Barnes wanted to knock his hand out of the way, wanted to stop him from touching Rogers, but he resisted the instinct. He clenched his metal hand around a fistful of bedsheet rather than around Sam’s throat. “You had us all worried there for a while, Cap. Thought you weren’t ever gonna wake up.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Rogers whispered, and Barnes somehow knew that the words were meant for him.

 

—

 

Barnes moved into a small house on the outskirts of the city with Steve—he had begun to call him _Steve_ rather than _Rogers_ within two days of knowing him, and found it easier than he expected—a few days after he was released from hospital.

Steve said it was so he could look after Barnes, rather than have him vulnerable to the authorities who would undoubtedly be looking for him. Barnes didn’t understand why Steve was being so kind to him after what had happened on the helicarrier, but Steve refused to talk to him about that day. Steve was focused on making Barnes better. Barnes didn’t know what being _better_ meant, but Steve had said they were going to take it “one day at a time”, so that is what they did.

Today, they were decorating. Or, rather, Steve was decorating. Barnes had offered to help, seeing as Steve had had surgery only a week and a half ago (he didn’t even know _how_ he could help, or why he wanted to) but Steve had sat him down against a wall with a plastic pot of yoghurt and instructed him to eat the entire thing.

They had been living out of (Steve’s) boxes for a week now, sleeping (or trying to sleep, in Barnes’ case) on the floor and dealing with (Barnes’) nightmares as and when they happened. Barnes still hadn’t slept for an entire night, and he struggled to stay unconscious for more than a couple of hours at a time. He would wake before long, sweating and screaming and breaking anything within five feet of him, until Steve talked him down. Once, on the first night in that house, Steve had tried to pin Barnes down until he stopped fighting—so he wouldn’t hurt himself, Steve said, the morning after—but it had ended with Barnes’ metal hand around Steve’s throat. Steve hadn’t tried to touch him during a nightmare since then.

He wasn’t able to keep food down, either. He could hardly eat a cracker without feeling nauseous (he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten something that wasn’t liquified and compacted) but Steve forced him to eat every few hours, handing him bland things like yoghurt and rice and apple slices.

More often than not, Barnes would end up with his head in a bucket or in the lavatory, with Steve rubbing his back while he threw up whatever he’d eaten. It was a miserable cycle of eat-vomit-eat-vomit-eat-vomit, but Barnes was vomiting less often with every day that passed. Today, his stomach was quite happily accepting the plain yoghurt Steve had given to him.

Steve had bought new furniture for the house, all very basic things that were easy to open and didn’t have any sharp corners. Barnes felt like he was being babied, but he didn’t complain. Where else was he going to go?

Between mouthfuls of yoghurt, Barnes was examining the contents of the boxes Steve had brought to the house with them. Natasha—who Barnes had formally met when she came to visit Steve the day after she brought Sam lunch—had given Steve a list of things to do to help Barnes get better, speaking from her own experience with the KGB, and apparently exposing Barnes to his past could help. Steve thought Barnes didn’t know about the list, but Barnes had found it only an hour after Natasha had given it to him.

He and Natasha had a great deal in common, and their brief conversations in Russian were enlightening. She knew how Barnes had suffered at the hands of the Soviets and Hydra, and was not afraid to discuss it, unlike Steve.

Barnes was not as fearful of his recent past as much as Steve was. He _wanted_ to talk about it. It had been his whole life until only a few days ago, and he had little else he wanted to discuss with the people he was trying to get to know. Natasha seemed to understand that.

Barnes liked her, he thought. She was kind, even though she did not appear to be.

He turned his attention back to Steve’s possessions. The boxes were labelled with different things, written in thick marker in Steve’s neat handwriting. Barnes had sifted through the boxes labelled CLOTHES, BOOKS (he had found the large number of erotic novels to be quite amusing, even though the nude men on some of the covers made him want to reach for the bucket beside him), BOOKS 2, and ART SUPPLIES.

Now, he was looking through the box labelled OLD STUFF. Steve kept glancing at him nervously, his attention alternating between Barnes and the paint roller in his hand. This box was the one Natasha had wanted Barnes to see.

There wasn’t much inside the box, compared to the others. Small items, mostly. Barnes pulled them out of the box one by one and laid them out beside him. He had the urge to identify the items aloud to Steve—the Soviets had had him recite the names of the weapons in his arsenal until he knew them all by sight, and he was fond of the routine—but he kept his list inside his head.

An old bottle cap with 1934 stamped on it.

A personal radio with a bullet hole through the middle.

Five war enlistment letters with 4F stamped on all of them.

Countless used cinema tickets.

A silver compass with a small photograph of woman tucked inside the lid.

Most interestingly, there were journals lining the bottom of the box.

There were five large journals with dates scratched into the front covers; _1932, 1934, 1935, 1936, 1938_. They were all flat, seemingly untouched, but Barnes could see pencil markings peeking out from the pages when they shifted. They appeared to be sketchbooks.

Sat beneath those were ten smaller journals, also with dates scratched into the front. This time, the dates were much closer together; _June 1940, May 1941, September 1941, January 1942_ , and onwards all the way through to _January 1945_. The last one wasn't bursting at the seams with wrinkled pages and clippings that had been taped to the top of the pages like the others. He held it up to the light, and saw that only the first five or so pages had been used.

“Can I look?” Barnes asked. Steve looked at him, then stared at the journal in his hand.

“What year’s written on the front?”

“1945.”

Steve visibly clenched his teeth, his jaw working furiously. He nodded, slowly, and turned back to the wall he was painting.

Barnes looked down at the journal. It was bound with a worn rubber band, even though it did not need to be held closed like the others. He pulled the rubber band away from the journal and laid it carefully next to the compass. He didn't know what to expect from a journal written by Steve seventy years ago.

 

_January 11th, 1945_

_We’re planning an ambush on a HYDRA train in a couple of days. We set up camp in the mountains near where the train is due to pass through, and it's just a matter of waiting now._

_Dugan tested out the zip line that we set up, and he's heavier than the rest of us so at least the journey down to the train will be safe enough._

_Bucky’s not been getting enough sleep lately. I think they kept him cold while he was in the factory, and all this snow can't be making him feel much better about it._

_Oh, and Zola’s gonna be on that train, too. That's probably not helping._

_Anyway, dinner is being served (beans and some soggy rice that we found in the bottom of Dernier’s pack, yum yum!) so I'm gonna write again tomorrow or something._

 

Barnes turned to the next page, fascinated. So, this was the tale of his life before the Soviets took him in; a soldier working with Steve, fighting _against_ Hydra. He couldn't even remember the events that Steve had transcribed.

 

_January 12th, 1945_

_Bucky caught me drawing him again. It ain't my fault he's so damn draw-able. I'm trying to get the shape of his lips just right, but he's getting punched in the kisser so often by the Commandos nowadays I can't keep up with the way his lips change._

_(He deserves it, most of the time. Jerk.)_

_Gabe and Dernier had_ _another_ _snowball fight this morning. You think they’d be sick of all the snow by now, but they’re just like little kids when it comes down to it._

_I tried throwing a snowball at Bucky, once, when Brooklyn was hit with four feet of snow overnight. I missed, and he shoved me into a snow drift._

_I wonder if he’d be able to push me over now?_

 

Barnes sifted through his memories, desperately trying to remember when he’d pushed Steve into a snow drift. It felt like something he _should_ remember. He remembered so many details from missions in the 50s and 60s and 70s, details he hadn’t _needed_ to know since the missions ended, but he couldn't remember Brooklyn covered in snow.

 

_ January 13th, 1945 _

_Well, someone stole the parcel of boiled sweets I've been saving. I know it was Bucky, but he won't admit it._

_I'm just going to sit here in the door of my tent for a while, pretending to be distracted by my journals, until he lowers his guard. Then I’m going to pounce on him._

_Sucker won't know what hit him._

 

There was a line scratched across the page, the pencil dug furiously into the thin paper until it creased. Then, below it:

 

 _It_ _was_ _him!!!! I knew it!!!!!!!!! He ate_ _all_ _the red ones!!!!!!!!!!!_

 

And beneath that, there was a simple drawing of a man wearing a woolen hat and a thick jacket, sticking his tongue out. Steve had put a thick black cross through the man’s face. Barnes automatically smiled down at the journal, at the childish drawing, and turned the page again.

 

_January 14th, 1945_

_It's go-time. The train is due to come past in an hour._

_Bucky’s nervous as hell, even though he’s pretending he ain't. He keeps playing with his dog tags and he only does that when he’s worried about something. He's got no reason to be worried. We’ve done stuff like this a hundred times._

_I don't wanna ask. He doesn't like talking about how he feels, thinks it makes him queer or something._

_I wouldn’t care if he was queer. I just wish he’d admit it. To_ _both_ _of us._

_Gotta go. See you on the other side._

 

Barnes looked at the next page. The bottom half had been ripped away, and only a few lines remained.

 

_January 15th, 1945_

_Bucky died yesterday._

_I won't be writing in this stupid thing anymore._

_It's not like anything fucking matters, now, not when Bucky was the only thing that really_

 

Barnes stared at the rip in the page that had effectively ended the journal entry. He looked up at Steve, who had stopped painting and was leant against the wall, his shoulder against a patch that he hadn’t painted yet.

“Anything good?” Steve asked, weakly. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

_I got you. I got you, Stevie. Oh, God, I got you._

“You were lovers.” Barnes said. “ _We_ were lovers.”

Steve shrugged, and his smile got a little sadder. Barnes’ stomach began to hurt, and it wasn't because of the yoghurt he’d been eating. He couldn't tell if he was nauseous from the thought of his naked body wrapped up in Steve’s like the men on some of the books Barnes had found in the boxes, or because of how pained Steve’s expression was.

“We were somethin’.”

 

—

 

Barnes became Bucky five months after he moved in with Steve. It was as easy as breathing, really. He woke up one day and it just didn't feel right to have Steve calling him Barnes.

“Bucky.” he had said, while Steve pulled eggs and milk out of the refrigerator and asked _Mornin’, Barnes. Whaddya want for breakfast?_ “Bucky’s fine.”

Steve had turned to face him, his expression absolutely joyous, and, yeah, Bucky was fine.

Steve had recently resumed his work with the Avengers—Bucky read the papers that reported what he’d been doing, and listened to the live radio updates—and Bucky had started taking control of his life. It _was_ his life, now, he thought. They hadn't heard a whisper from Hydra, hadn't received a single threat on Bucky’s life. It was time for him to start catching up on everything he missed.

Steve happened to be most of what Bucky had missed.

He and Steve had had some… interesting moments. Steve had told Bucky that he could come into his room and speak to him at any time of day, if he needed to. So, Bucky had, on more than one occasion, wandered into Steve’s room without knocking and found him lying naked on his bed with his hips in the air and fingers and fists in places that Bucky didn't want to think about.

Steve was embarrassed the first time, and he had covered his flushed body up without a second thought. He was gradually becoming less and less embarrassed the more often Bucky accidentally walked in on him, and would just lie there completely naked until Bucky left or asked to share his bed.

They had started sharing a bed quite early on. Once Steve had constructed their new beds, they had split off into separate rooms, but more often than not Bucky would sidle into Steve’s room late at night and ask to sleep with him. He rarely _actually_ asked, and would just slide under the covers without saying a word.

“You okay?” Steve would ask, still half-asleep, when Bucky made the mattress dip with his weight. Bucky would mumble out an answer, good or bad, and let Steve wrap his arms around him. Those nights were always the nights Bucky slept best. There was something unexpectedly comforting about having his head tucked against Steve’s chest or having Steve lined up against the length of his body.

They didn't talk much about Hydra and what had happened to Bucky (certain parts of Bucky’s stories made Steve cry) but Steve was more than happy to catch Bucky up on their lives in the 1930s and 40s. Bucky was more than happy to listen, too.

Sometimes, Steve would just pull out his old journals and read extracts to Bucky while they lounged on his bed together. Bucky would lie across Steve, his ear pressed against his chest, listening to his abdomen rumble when he spoke.

“Oh, Buck, you'll love this one. Dernier got a new type of condensed dynamite from Howard and he blew your tent to pieces just so he could test it. You were _so_ mad. I'd never seen your face so red!”

“Do you remember this? I got beat up twice in one day by the same guy, and you booted him off the dock. His mom came round and complained at _my_ mom, because they thought we were brothers. And my mom grounded you for it, too, as if she really was your ma!”

“You used to talk in your sleep, all the time, and one night I sat up and wrote down everything you said. See, there's a list here—yeah, you just listed off a recipe for the best creamed potatoes in Brooklyn, you jackass. I thought you were gonna be dirty talking imaginary girls all night, and all I got was some recipe cards!”

Other times, Steve would take Bucky (in disguise) to the Smithsonian exhibit and show him the photographs and accounts of their wartime lives. Once, Bucky started to cry in the projector room, when he saw footage of the woman from Steve’s compass. He didn't know why he’d started crying, but Steve dragged him home and let him work it out on the punching bag in their back room.

(Bucky hadn't ever forgotten to box. It was the one thing Hydra hadn't taught him, if Steve’s journals were anything to go by, and he embraced the opportunity to succeed at something without Soviet training driving his every move.)

Most of the time, Steve would just tell Bucky stories from his own memories, and Bucky would fill in the gaps where he could. It took Bucky a while to get into the habit of calling Steve a _punk_ whenever he called him a _jerk_ (which happened a _lot_ ), but it felt natural once he remembered how often they used to say it to one another.

Steve said Bucky had come a long way, and Bucky finally knew what it meant to be _better_ . This _was_ better. Being with _Steve_ was better, better than anything.

 

—

 

Today, they were painting and exchanging stories. It was something they did once or twice a week, if Steve wasn't too busy and Bucky wasn't too tired. Steve loved to paint, and Bucky loved to watch Steve paint. Bucky tried to paint, sometimes, but he wasn't any good.

Bucky had been living with Steve for ten months, now. He couldn't remember ever being this happy.

“1945 was an awful year.” Steve said, while he painted and Bucky tried to copy his painting on his own canvas, “I wish it hadn't happened.”

“We wouldn't be here if it hadn’t.”

“Nah, but maybe things woulda been better if we’d stuck around in the 40s.”

Bucky shrugged and rinsed his paintbrush in the water jar that sat on the stool between them. He picked up a thicker paintbrush and tried to imitate the rays of sunlight that Steve was streaking through his painting. Steve was far more talented artist than he was, but that was no surprise. Before this, Bucky hadn’t ever had reason to pick up a paintbrush.

“They told me your plane went down,” Bucky said, suddenly, as a detached memory floated through his mind. “You went down in the Arctic.”

Steve snorted, “Yeah. One of my less brilliant ideas, I think. You know, Tony called me Capsicle for a good year after they defrosted me?”

Bucky smiled. He hadn’t ever met Tony Stark, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to throttle him or shake his hand.

Steve dipped his paintbrush into the pot of yellow paint and continued, “Yup, that happened. It was all over the news. Someone showed me a newspaper article about it a while back. They _neglected_ to mention the fact that I went down in the Valkyrie to stop a damn continent blowing up, and just said I'd accidentally crashed in one of our own pl—”

“You went down in the Valkyrie?” Bucky interrupted. The paintbrush slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, splashing yellow paint onto his socked feet.

Steve nodded, his expression wary. “Yeah. You know it?”

Bucky ran his paint-covered fingers through his hair and pulled at the parts of it that were getting long again. His heart began to pound in his chest, and a cold sweat splintered down his spine. Memories were rushing through his mind, memories of a factory floor, blue bombs, pneumonia and Steve’s pale face hovering above him.

“Christ, Steve,” he mumbled, hardly able to hear his own voice over the sound of his blood pulsing in his head, “I helped build that plane. I helped—they made me build rockets, and, and I—oh, God, Steve. That was _my_ ship, _my_ bombs.”

“Bucky, it ain't your fault.” Steve said, quietly. He took a step towards Bucky and hooked his hand round the back of Bucky’s neck, his thumb grazing a sensitive spot behind Bucky’s ear. It calmed Bucky down immediately, and he let out a long breath. “What they made you do in that place wasn't your fault. I don't blame you for any of it. I never have, and I never will.”

“But you wouldn't have had to crash the Valkyrie if my bombs weren't onboard. That plane wouldn't have been in the _air_ if I hadn't helped make the engines.” Bucky shivered, and Steve began to stroke his neck with his thumb. It was a gentle gesture, the most tender thing imaginable, but it made Bucky’s lower back prickle and caused a reaction between his legs.

He blushed at the movement in his groin. Recently, he’d gotten better at the ‘not vomiting after getting an erection’ thing, but he still wasn’t completely comfortable with it. He’d spent a lot of time struggling with it, trying to hide what his body did when he was around a half-naked Steve. Bucky didn’t deny it; for some reason, Steve’s body made Bucky’s body do _things_. Nowadays, it made him far less nauseous to think of Steve in that way. He still sometimes caught himself dreaming about Steve naked and flushed and felt vaguely disgusted with himself, but he assumed it was because of what the Soviets and Hydra had done to him.

He remembered the conversion therapy. Of course he did. That wasn’t something you just _forgot_. He’d read an article on it, in a scientific magazine that Steve had left on the dinner table one day. The article described all the different types of therapy—emetics, electroshock, lobotomies—and Bucky had experienced them all, and then some others that the Soviets had wanted to test.

The article ( _CONversion Therapy_ ) claimed that conversion therapy never worked. Bucky had smiled at that. Conversion therapy _had_ worked. It just hadn’t stuck around. His current physical state was proof of that.

Steve didn't seem to notice. He continued to touch Bucky for a moment, watching him carefully, then he wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and hugged him. Steve sighed into Bucky’s hair, then spoke: “It's not your fault. I hate that it happened, but you're not the reason for it happening. Understand?” Bucky nodded, his nose bumping against Steve’s shoulder.

“You're gonna get paint all over yourself.” Bucky mumbled. He wasn't the tidiest of painters, and he had gotten splashes of paint all over his shirt (it was one of Steve’s old shirts, the one he had worn when they decorated their house all those months ago). Steve laughed softly and pulled away, staring down at his now-multicolored t-shirt, and Bucky couldn't help but smile.

Steve reached down and swiped his finger through some blue paint that was just above the hem of his shirt. He raised his hand to Bucky’s face and, with a shy smile, dabbed a pattern onto his right cheek. Bucky watched Steve relax into contentment as he usually did while he painted, and Bucky could feel warmth building in his chest. He really did love to watch Steve paint.

Bucky hadn't ever been Steve’s canvas before, and he decided he liked it.

“There.” Steve said, triumphantly. He leaned back and examined whatever he had painted on Bucky’s cheek. Steve raised his hand and cupped Bucky’s other cheek. A warm flush rushed down Bucky’s spine when Steve ran his thumb gently along his cheekbone. “My Bucky.”

Bucky smiled more widely and leaned forward to kiss Steve. He used his finger under Steve’s chin to angle his face upwards, and his lips had just closed around Steve’s lower one when he realised what he was doing. Bucky froze, staring into Steve’s wide eyes, his lips still pressed against Steve’s.

Steve blinked. “Buck?” he whispered, jostling Bucky’s lips.

Bucky didn't move.

He had just kissed Steve. He hadn't meant to, hadn't even been thinking about it until Bucky went right ahead and did it. And Steve hadn't jumped away, hadn’t recoiled, hadn’t kneed Bucky in the groin. He wasn't reacting badly at all. In fact, Steve was…

“Well, hello, _Captain_ ,” Bucky mumbled, smiling against Steve’s half-open mouth. Steve flushed bright pink and heat actually began to radiate from his cheeks.

Faint memories were fogging Bucky’s thoughts. He couldn't tell if they were his or Steve’s or someone else's entirely. Steve, with lidded eyes and moans slipping out from between his teeth. Steve, sucking a bruise into Bucky’s neck. Steve, lying on top of Bucky, his hips moving like pistons. Steve, lying beneath Bucky, his legs spread apart and his cheeks cherry-red. Steve, with his head in Bucky’s lap, saying _I don't wanna do this anymore, Buck_ . Steve, rubbing up against Bucky in a sleeping bag that was too small for them both to fit inside. Someone who looked like Steve, cursing in French and begging Bucky to _fuck me, yes, faster, God, yes_.

He couldn’t remember ever kissing Steve. Had they _ever_? Had their relationship back in the thirties and forties been exclusively intimate and not romantic in any real way? Is that why Steve was so hesitant to kiss Bucky back? Maybe they hadn’t ever touched like this before.

Bucky felt two warm hands cup his face and he flinched. The memories faded away, lost like all the others, and Steve’s concerned face came into focus.

“You okay?” Steve asked, his voice unbearably gentle. He had pulled away from Bucky, but was now holding his face carefully between his palms. His eyes were saying everything and nothing all at once, his gaze so intense that Bucky could've dropped to the floor right then and there.

Instead, he kissed him again.

Bucky hadn't kissed anyone for a long time. If Steve's stories were anything to go on, he’d been quite the ladies’ man back in the day, but Bucky could not recognise those memories as his own. He remembered kissing someone else, a French target called Moreau, but aside from that… nothing.

Still, the action came naturally. He mirrored what Steve had done, and cupped Steve’s face between his hands. He stepped forward and pushed up against Steve, pulling his head down to meet him and to make their lips press more firmly together. It was Steve who caved first, and he sucked Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth, turning it into something more than an innocent press of lips on lips. Their teeth clicked together, but neither of them seemed to mind.

Steve released his hold on Bucky’s face, but continued to kiss him. Bucky felt a hand come to rest on the back of his head, threaded through his hair, and another landed at the base of his spin. Bucky gasped at the tingling sensation of Steve’s hand pushing against his lower back, blushing when the sound came out as a choked moan, and he realised that he needed Steve somewhere flat _right now_.

“Couch,” he mumbled, relishing in the way that Steve blindly chased his lips with his own, “ _Couch_.”

Steve nodded and began to walk Bucky backwards, still going to _town_ on his lips. Bucky had only wanted this for a few minutes, but from the way Steve was kissing him he must've wanted this for much, much longer.

Bucky knew exactly where the couch was, through in the front room—the room they were in now had spare boxes, a punching bag and their art supplies, and that was it—but Steve was stumbling over his feet, too focused on kissing Bucky to concentrate on where they were going. Bucky ended up pressed against a doorframe with Steve’s hands up his t-shirt, his palms skating over Bucky’s abdomen and grabbing at his waist.

“Is this okay?” Steve asked, completely breathlessly, while he held Bucky by his hips and kissed along his jaw.

Bucky nodded, his eyes wide. Steve sunk his teeth into that one spot behind Bucky’s ear that he always seemed to focus on, and Bucky’s vision went white around the edges.

“How long have you wanted this?” Bucky gasped, arching up into Steve’s touch. He wanted more of Steve, wanted his hands everywhere and touching everything, and he didn't feel nauseous one bit. Bucky wanted this. He _really_ wanted this.

“M’whole life,” Steve murmured, his right hand on Bucky’s waistband. He lifted his other hand up to Bucky's head and laced his fingers through his hair, “Always wanted you. Never wanted to say anything.”

“But _you_ ended it.” Bucky remembered that, remembered the day Sarah Rogers died, remembered Steve’s head in his lap. It was a cold memory, and it made Bucky’s stomach ache whenever he thought about it. He could not remember Sarah, couldn't remember her face or her voice or what colour her eyes were, but he remembered loving her almost as fiercely as he loved her son.

“I was scared.” Steve was sucking the skin directly above Bucky’s jugular now, and he had dipped his hand down to cup Bucky’s ass beneath his pants. _Thank_ God _for elasticated waistbands_ , Bucky thought, numbly. “Thought you'd leave me.”

Bucky bit his lower lip to hold back a gasp when Steve moved his hand inwards. “I will if you don't get somewhere flat _right now_ . Christ, Steve, I _want_ you.”

Steve moved his hand sharply through Bucky's hair, pulling it just enough to make Bucky suck in a surprised breath and tilt his head to the side. Steve sucked the side of Bucky’s neck, his breathing heavy, and then he pulled away. His expression was filled with more desire than Bucky had ever seen, and he had once walked in on Steve halfway through an orgasm. Steve took Bucky by the hand and pulled him through the doorway.

They ended up on Steve’s bed, not the couch, but it felt right for them to do it here. Bucky hadn't had another person touch him since Moreau, and that had happened over two decades before. It was strange, to fall apart under someone else's hand. He had not been _helping_ himself as much as he could've been, so having Steve’s hands and mouth all over him for this first time was something he would never forget. Steve helped him through it, constantly checking that Bucky was comfortable with everything that was happening.

Bucky got tired easy nowadays, but he and Steve didn't leave the bedroom for the rest of the day, and they hardly stopped for a minute. Even when it was too much and they were too sensitive to do anything, they would lie together and lazily touch one another, just enjoying each others’ company.

Bucky supposed they had a lot of catching up to do. He really hadn’t ever fulfilled his curiosity with Steve’s body—and _God_ , did he remember being curious about it. Memories like those pierced his thoughts every so often; brief flashes of things Bucky and Steve had done together when they were younger, either false memories from Steve’s journals and stories or Bucky’s real memories.

The real memories were the brightest. They stuck around for a while, sincere and meaningful, and it was all too easy for Bucky to take Steve into his arms, to press his lips against Steve’s bruised and bitten neck, and to whisper:

“I got you, Stevie.”

 

—

 

Later, when they both had to tend to personal matters like eating and peeing and leaving Steve’s bedroom became a necessity, Bucky stepped into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.

He tried to avoid his reflection, usually. He always saw the old Bucky Barnes from Steve’s sketchbooks staring back at him, but the Winter Soldier hung over him like a permanent shadow, changing the way his eyes sat in his skull and the way his lips moved.

Today, Bucky saw _Bucky_ in the mirror.

Sure, he had countless love bites all over every bare inch of skin and his lips were puffy and red, but there was something familiar about the man Bucky saw in the mirror. There was a smudged and faded blue star on Bucky’s right cheek, the perfect companion to the red one on his left arm.

Bucky had been marked by the men who had taken him from Steve, and who had tried to keep him away, but Steve had marked him, too.

He wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes, and he wasn’t the asset or the Winter Soldier, but he was someone who could think for himself and choose what he wanted to eat for breakfast or what books he wanted to read. He was someone who Steve Rogers loved, and who loved Steve Rogers back, and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! :)
> 
> (Did you like my overuse of the Stucky smut trope "I got you"? ;D)
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://clokkerfoot.tumblr.com/).


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